


The Way I Tend To Be

by JazzB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of) Punklock, AU, Angst, Bullying, Cutting, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, FWB, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, High School, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied abuse, Johnlock - Freeform, Lots of snogging, M/M, Self-Harm, Snogging, Teenlock, depressed!Sherlock, teen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzB/pseuds/JazzB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's unstable. John does everything he can to help. (I suck at summaries).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this came from The Way I Tend To Be by Frank Turner. If you haven't listened to it, I really recommend you do. I feel like it goes really well with their relationship in this fic. Also this is my first Johnlock fic, so keep that in mind but please, be honest! Constructive criticism is always warmly accepted :)  
> As a side note, I haven't archived this as 'underage' because they're both 17 in this, which is over the age of consent in the UK. I know it's 18 in most of the US, so I thought I'd just clarify that if anyone was confused.

It's cold. 

John knows that's obvious, but it's the only thought he can manage. It's just so  _bloody fucking_ cold. He's really bundled up, wearing a tee-shirt and two jumpers underneath his coat as well as a full hat-scarf-and-gloves ensemble. Harry laughed at him this morning, said he looked daft in the stripy scarf and bobbly hat, and he's damn glad he didn't listen too her now. He huddles further down, bringing his shoulders up in an effort to keep his ears warm. 

"How are you not freezing?" he addresses the boy at his side. Sherlock Holmes wears the same thing he wears every day - light button down shirt, well-cut trousers and that grey knee-length jacket that so many people at school covet. The coat is open, and Sherlock has his hands buried deep in the pockets. He's not looking at John; he's staring at the sky, a million miles away from the real world, lost in his own thought. He simply shrugs in response to John's question and John knows what that means :-  _"I am freezing and should've dressed warmer but I don't want to admit that I was wrong."_ If not the shrug, the fact that Sherlock's ears are a stinging shade of scarlet behind his curls reveals all. John sighs. 

"Why don't you come to mine? It's closer than yours," he says. "And you can borrow a scarf and stuff so you don't catch hypothermia or something on the way home." 

"Don't be ridiculous, John, it's not nearly cold enough for hypothermia and anyway-" Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off with a look. 

"Mate. You're doing it again," he says. "Come on. Come to mine. I'll make you hot chocolate. And we'll watch a film." 

"Not another Bond movie," Sherlock groans. "They're so  _bad,_ John. I don't see what you like so much about them." 

"The Bond series are classic cinema," John says, defensively. "But no, if you're that adamant, we'll watch a movie of  _your_ choosing, Mr Picky." He accompanies the words with a prod to Sherlock's arm, which is not at all well-received, but Sherlock grins after stepping back smartly.

"Go on then, you've twisted my arm," Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John knows he's joking.  _  
_

John and Sherlock have been friends for two years now, since Year Ten at secondary school. They'd been put together by their English teacher to work on a project and John, being reasonably confident and sociable, had invited Sherlock to his house that night to work on it. Sherlock accepted somewhat begrudgingly but later decided he liked John when the blond didn't punch him or tell him to piss off for his deductions. Instead John muttered words like "Amazing!" and "Fantastic!" and the pair have been practically inseperable ever since. Sherlock accepts that John has other friends - the rugby lads and Mike from his Geography class and Mary from French - but for the most part Sherlock can't stand them. They're stupid and boring, with the excpetion of Mary who makes him smile sometimes, and Sherlock generally gives them a wide berth. He has very few friends aside from John; he's fairly well-accquainted with the boy that he sits next to in Chemistry (Sherlock knows him only by his surname, Lestrade. His first name begins with G, but Sherlock can never remember it exactly). And there's Molly, who's friendship he really does value, even if he doesn't show it as much as he should. Despite their friendships outside of each other, they're widely known across the school as a double act. So much so that nobody can ever say one of their names without immediately adding the other. They may not have been friends for very long, but they're definitely best friends. 

They arrive at John's within five minutes and John stashes their coats away in the cupboard in the hallway. 

"I believe I was promised a hot chocolate," Sherlock reminds John as they go into the kitchen. John laughs. 

"Yeah, yeah, alright," John laughs. "Go wait in the front room and pick a film, alright? I'll bring it through." 

Sherlock grins at him then goes through into the living room. John hears him opening the DVD cabinet and rifling through the discs. He hopes to hell he won't pick something boring - that would be such a Sherlock trick. Pick something totally opposite to an action film just to get on John's nerves. John busies himself making drinks - tea for him, hot chocolate for Sherlock. He takes both mugs through to the living room and sets them down on the coffee table. Sherlock is curled up on one corner of the sofa, and John sits next to him and sees that he's picked  _Titanic,_ of all the films John owns. 

"Ugh. Really?" John complains. 

"Yes, John, really," Sherlock says. "We're learning about Titanic in History class. It could benefit me." 

"That or you wanted to stare at Leonardo DiCaprio for two and a half hours," John teases, and Sherlock smirks. 

"Well, that's as may be, but I doubt you have any aversion to staring at Kate Winslet for two and a half hours," the dark haired boy shoots back, and John just laughs. Sherlock moves his feet into John's lap and John's hands come to rest on Sherlock's legs. It's not gay, John tells himself. It's alright for friends to snuggle up together when they watch a film, isn't it? Anyway, John  _isn't_ gay. He's into girls. He's known for being something of a smooth bastard on the rugby team, and he always manages to pull when he tries. He's snogged most of the girls in their year and slept with a lot of them too. Cuddling with Sherlock is nothing. 

The front door bangs when they're about a quarter of the way through the film. 

"Only me!" Harry's voice comes from the porch. They hear her kick of her shoes and she pads through into the front room. 

"Hey John. Hi, Sherlock," she smiles at them. She's eleven, in her last year at Junior School. She's an essentially good kid, though she sometimes gets in trouble at school for giggling too much in class. 

"Hiya," John replies. 

"Hi Harry," Sherlock says, with a small grin. Harry glances at the screen. 

"Oh, cool! Titanic! Can I watch?" she says. 

"Told you it was a good film," Sherlock whispers to John. They've shifted position since the start of the movie, so now John's head is resting on Sherlock's shoulder. If Sherlock turns his head he gets a mouth and nose full of silky pale gold and he doesn't totally hate it. Harry sits next to the sofa, cross-legged on the film, and watches the film avidly along with them. 

* * *

After the film has finished and Harry decides she'd better get on with her homework, the boys go up to John's room to listen to music. Sherlock perches on the end of the bed while John slots a CD into the player. John turns to face him, and cocks his head on one side. Sherlock isn't looking at him, he's staring straight down at the floor. He's jiggling his leg and is writhing his hands together in his lap. Ordinary gestures for most people, but Sherlock isn't most people, and John knows that. 

"You okay, pal?" he asks, and he says it delicately because he knows he answer already. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, and John tuts. 

"Liar," he says. "What's up?" 

"Mycroft's a twat," Sherlock says simply. "Open the window." It's advice rather than a request, John realises as Sherlock brings out a cigarette and brings it up to his lips. John grumbles about it but obliges, cracking the bedroom window open. 

"You shouldn't smoke so much, you know. It's not healthy," John says. "What's Mycroft done this time?" 

"Does he have to have done anything? He's a twat every time he breathes," Sherlock mutters, taking a drag. Realising John's still staring at him he sighs. "He found... stuff in my room. Told our parents." 

"Was your dad really angry?" John asks. He knows this is a sensetive and uncomfortable topic, and not one Sherlock can usually talk about without breaking down. But this time he just shrugs one shoulder. 

"I don't care about him," he says, blowing out smoke rings. Then he pauses. "But it... it upsets Mum." 

"Ah," John says. Sherlock hates his whole family, John knows, but his mum is the exception. He adores her, practically worships the ground she walks on. John swallows. "Well. You did say you were gonna stop using... stuff months ago." 

"I did stop," Sherlock shrugs again. "Life with my dad and Mycroft became unbearable without it." 

"Are they getting bad?" John asks, awkwardly. Sherlock actually laughs there. 

"'Getting?' What do you mean 'getting?' They've always been this way," Sherlock sounds bitter. 

"Sherlock, why don't you tell someone?" John asks, and Sherlock doesn't look impressed. 

"Tell who? And tell them what? My dad's a prick? Hardly think they can do anything about that," Sherlock breathes a line of smoke out. John sighs. He wants to tell Sherlock to stop being so god-damn proud. He wants to make Sherlock realises that his dad is more than just a prick; he's an emotionally-abusive waste-of-space prat and there probably is something the authorities could do about it. He just wants to help his best friend. But he knows how much it will upset Sherlock. 

So, as much as he wants to, he doesn't say anything. 

 


	2. Two

_Why am I friends with this prick? All he does is get me into trouble._

It isn't the first time John's had that thought in the past twenty four months. Sherlock's got this annoying habit of pissing off people he really shouldn't, and one of those people is Charlie Magnussen. He's in the school year above them and he knows everything about everyone and is notorious for blackmailing people into doing his dirty work. Thing is, Sherlock knows everything about everyone too and Magnussen doesn't like to be challenged. He himself is a scrawny, speccy git, and John reckons one-on-one neither he or Sherlock would have a problem taking him on. But Magnussen never fights one-on-one. He's got a pack of mindless hard-knocks who he pays to do that for him, and John and Sherlock have to run to avoid getting their heads kicked in. So they're running now, Sherlock's leather boots and John's old holey trainers splashing through puddles, the pair of them utterly saturated with the pouring rain. 

Suddenly, John's hand is grabbed and yanked so hard he feels as if his shoulder is being pulled out of its socket. He stumbles into an alleyway, and a hand he recognizes as Sherlock's falls over his mouth with a hurried  _shh!_ His back is pressed against the wall, the damp, pebbly surface scratching his back through his jumper. From their place in the shadows, they can clearly see the orange-lit street, but can't be seen from anywhere beyond the mouth of the alleyway. They wait, both of them breathing heavily and nursing stitches in their sides, until they see Magnussen's cronies pass by the opening. They wait until their pounding footsteps have faded down the street and around the corner before Sherlock drops his hand away and they allow themselves to make any noise. 

"You're mad, you are," John nudges Sherlock. "You'll be the death of me." 

"It's an adrenaline kick, if nothing else," Sherlock shrugs. "And anyway, you could always leave me. You don't  _have_ to tag along." 

"Of course I have to," John says. "What kind of best mate would I be if I let you get your arse kicked by yourself, eh? Friends don't let friends do stupid things alone, Sherlock." 

"Well. Thanks, I appreciate it," Sherlock grins. "Mum and Dad are away this weekend and Mycroft's finally fucked off home - why don't you come and stay? Takeaway on me - consider it an apology for tonight." 

"Mm. Think I can accept that apology," John says as they start to walk away. 

It's only then that John notices they're still holding hands. 

He glances down at their hands, his own bright red from the cold, Sherlock's clothed in soft black gloves. Sherlock doesn't even seem to have noticed, he's ranting away and strolling along as if it's the most natural thing in the world to have your fingers tangled with your best friend's. Your best friend who happens to be another boy and who also happens to be as straight as an arrow - which he  _is._ He definitely  _is._ But then, is holding hands really such a far shout from cuddling? They very casually snuggle up together all the time, and that always feels pretty natural. Holding hands is much more intimate, John realises. Lots of friends cuddle (admittedly usually girl-girl friends, but that's beside the point) but holding hands is a couple thing. It's something people do when they're together. John knows he should pull away, but his hands are cold, and the feeling of Sherlock's glove against his icy skin isn't totally unpleasant. 

"What did you say to them this time, anyway?" John asks, as they wait by the curb for a cab with its light on. Sherlock smirks.

“I may or may not have pointed out some of the less pleasant features of that Smallwood girl he’s so interested in,” he says.

“I think you get off on pissing people off, don’t you, you mad bastard?” John snorts, and Sherlock just grins.

“It _is_ a lot of fun, John,” he says. “And anyway. You’re the one who follows me into trouble every time, so what does that say about you?”

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I’m just as mad as you are,” he chuckles. “God it’s _freezing_.”

It was colder out tonight than John had initially realised; the sky had been clear when he left the house, and so he assumed the weather would be mild at best. He’s only wearing a jumper, no jacket on top. Without a word, Sherlock shrugs off his own coat and drapes it around John’s shoulders.

“I didn’t mean…” John begins, about to tell Sherlock off because now _he’ll_ be cold, but he’s amazed to see that the taller boy is wearing a green jumper. _John’s_ green jumper. It’s an old one which has been washed too many times so the colours faded from emerald to sludge. It’s always been a little bit big on John, the hem coming past his bum and the sleeves falling past his wrists, but John’s a lot smaller than Sherlock, and it’s a perfect fit on the dark-haired boy. It’s the perfect length and it hugs his chest and shoulders beautifully, like a second skin. The V-neck collar dips just low enough to show a seductive amount of neck. On John, that jumper had never looked anything but ordinary. But on Sherlock it looks… _spectacular._

John mentally curses himself for these thoughts. He’s _straight._ And this is _Sherlock._ His best friend. Practically his brother. He shouldn’t think about him that way.

“Is that my jumper?” is all he can manage, and Sherlock looks down.

“Oh, yes, I think it is,” he plucks at the material. “Um… yes, I wore it home from your house one day when I stayed over last month, don’t you remember? I was supposed to give it back, but I forgot.”

Come to think of it, John does have vague memories of throwing the jumper at Sherlock when he had nothing else to wear to go home.

“Keep it,” he finds himself saying. “Looks better on you.”

“Thanks,” and John swears in the glare of the streetlight he sees Sherlock blush. But then a free cab turns up and Sherlock thumbs it down and John senses that that is a signal for the end of that conversation.

* * *

It’s a quiet ride back to Sherlock’s place, but not at all awkward. It’s that sort of comfortable silence that can only occur between close family members or closer friends. Their hands are still clasped loosely on the middle seat in between them. When they get there, Sherlock pays for the cab – something he never does – and they go up the steps and into the house together. John’s always liked Sherlock’s house, though it’s nothing particularly spectacular; a five-bed two-bath detached in a leafy suburb with gardens in the back and the front. It’s beautifully ordinary, but compared to John’s three-bedroom one-bathroom end terrace in the city centre, it’s practically a mansion.

When they get in, John removes his shoes. He always takes his shoes off at Sherlock’s house because it’s carpeted all the way through with pale colours and John’s really conscious of making marks. Sherlock keeps them on, clearly not giving a shit. He goes out of his way to piss of his dad and brother most of the time, and this is probably one of his acts of rebellion, John thinks.

John is waved to sit down in the front room, where Sherlock is dialling the number for their favourite Chinese place. They order from there too much, Sherlock realises, as the woman on the other end of the line reels their usual order off to him immediately after he gives the delivery address. He chuckles, thinking they should probably eat more healthily. Or at least widen their range of takeout places.

As cold as it is outside, the heating has been on in Sherlock’s house all day and as a consequence, it’s so hot Sherlock’s starting to sweat. Without really thinking about what he’s doing, he pushes the sleeves of his – _John’s_ – jumper, up to his elbows as he confirms the order and is quoted half an hour for delivery. When he hangs up the phone and turns to John, he realises his mistake.

John is staring at his now-exposed forearms. Sherlock looks too, and quickly pulls the sleeves down to his wrists again. It’s too late. John’s already seen. He strides over to Sherlock and rolls the sleeves up again. He strokes the pad of his thumb over the cuts, both old and fresh, and Sherlock shivers, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You told me you’d stopped,” John whispers, and his voice catches in the middle. “You _promised,_ Sherlock.”

“I know,” the taller boy replies, and he can’t bring himself to open his eyes to look at John. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” suddenly, there’s a pair of warm, soft arms around Sherlock’s waist and a head on his shoulder. “They should be sorry. Not you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock brings his own arms up to wrap around John’s shoulders and lets his chin rest on the smaller boy’s head. They embrace in comfortable silence until they hear the doorbell ring.

 


	3. Three

Over the course of the night, they don't talk about their pre-dinner conversation again. 

They talk, certainly. John talks about ordinary things; school and rugby and films and music, and Sherlock about Sherlock-y things, like murder and serial killers and chemisty and classical music. They watch Family Guy, which Sherlock hates, but it's better than TOWIE so he puts up with it. At some point, Sherlock goes into the kitchen and digs out a carton of Ben and Jerry's and two spoons. After all the Chinese food they don't really  _need_ it, but it's John's favourite and to be honest the idea of sharing a carton of ice cream with John really appeals to Sherlock. 

"It's Sally Donovan's birthday next weekend," John says. 

"Is it? Good for her," Sherlock replies, not entirely understanding why he should be interested in that. 

"She's having a party. You should come," John tells him. Sherlock scoffs. 

"Why would I want to go to  _her_ party? She hates me," he says. 

"She doesn't  _hate_ you," John shifts uncomfortably, because he's not entirely sure how trueit is. "She just think you're a bit... she thinks you're..." 

"A freak," Sherlock says. "Yes. I know. She tells me every time I have the misfortune to be in her presence. No, I already have plans for next weekend anyway." 

"You do?" John says, feeling slightly put out. It's not often Sherlock has plans that aren't with him. "What plans? Who with?" 

"I'm going shopping with Molly," Sherlock says, as if it's completely normal. Which it _is,_ for most people, but Sherlock's not most people. And he hates shopping. 

"Shopping with Molly," John repeats. 

"Yes," Sherlock replies. 

"You're going shopping. With Molly," John says, slowly. 

"Yes, I think we've established that," Sherlock says. "Really, John, don't speak if you're going to be boring." 

"You hate shopping," John reminds him. 

"Usually, yes," Sherlock agrees. 

"So what makes it different this time?" John asks. Then something in his head clicks, and he smirks. "Oh my God!" 

"What?" Sherlock looks startled and confused. 

"You fancy Molly!" John says, and Sherlock splutters at that. 

"No, I don't!" he insists. "Whatever gave you that idea?" 

"When have you ever voluntarily gone  _shopping_?" John said. "There's no shame in liking her. She's nice. And she's really pretty." 

"I don't like her, not like that," Sherlock insists. "And beauty's subjective. She's got nice hair and eyes, I suppose but her mouth is too small and so are her breasts. We're going shopping because I have things to buy and she offered to come with me." 

"Why didn't you ask me?" John wants to know. He feels slightly jealous in a really irrational way. 

"You're going to Sally's birthday party," Sherlock points out, and John's about to argue that Sherlock didn't know about that until about two minutes ago, but he knows there's exactly zero sense in starting an argument with Sherlock; they both know who'll win in that situation. They're scraping the bottom of the ice cream carton now, and it's getting late. Sherlock stands up, stretching his back. "Come on. Let's go up to bed. I'm exhausted." 

"Sure," John gets his feet too, and follows Sherlock up to his bedroom. 

Its the only room in the house that doesn't fit the colour scheme, Sherlock's bedroom - and that's just typical, just like Sherlock himself. The rest of the house is all cream walls and pale carpets. Ever the rebel, Sherlock had (without permission, of course) painted his bedroom black when he was  14. The carpet is black too, though Sherlock's got a frayed and faded old rag rug beside his bed. All over his walls, he's tacked up posters all over his walls of old rock bands, and there's a photo of he and John on a school trip to Paris last year in amongst them somewhere (John's moved almost to tears every time he sees it). He's got an impressive hifi system, and a large collection of rock and punk CDs. Most of his reason for owning them is because he likes to play them at top volume and piss off his dad and Mycroft. He's comfortingly messy; it's the most teenage thing about him. John's never seen the word 'floordrobe' apply more to anyone else. The laundry hamper is full, and John makes a mental note to take it down to the utility room in the morning. 

"You're so untidy," John tuts. 

"I don't have time for tidying. Tidying is boring," Sherlock shrugs. He looks around, then wrinkles his nose. "No room for the camp bed. You don't mind sharing, do you?" 

"Um... no," John says. He doesn't know why he hesitates; he and Sherlock have shared a bed plenty of times. Hell, they share a bed every time Sherlock stays at John's because there's no spare bed. Maybe it's because of the hand holding. Or maybe its because of the conversation they had before dinner. Either way, John feels strange about sharing a bed with Sherlock tongiht. Not uncomfortable. But... off. 

But he doesn't say a word as Sherlock changes into his pyjamas and hands John a tee-shirt to sleep in. He doesn't say anything as they slide under the covers together, or when Sherlock puts his arm around his waist. He waits until they've been lying for a while until he slips his fingers into the sleeves of Sherlock's pyjamas and sighs heavily. 

"It's not good for you mate," he says, pathetically. Sherlock tuts. 

"Don't you think I know that?" he grumbles. 

"Why?" John whispers. 

"It helps me cope," Sherlock replies. "Dad and Mycroft... kids at school... it all just gets too much sometimes." 

"You don't have to hurt yourself, to cope, Sherlock," John says. "That's not a coping mechanism." 

"What else can I do?" Sherlock mutters, and he looks so genuinely hurt and upset and  _scared,_ that John wants to cry. 

"You can talk to me, you daft prick," John says. Sherlock's face cracks into a genuine smile then. 

"Thank you," he says, and then he does something that surprises John no end. 

He leans forwards until their lips meet. 


	4. Four

John lies awake and stares at the ceiling for a long time after Sherlock falls asleep. 

He's confused, to say the least. Sherlock had pulled away from the kiss almost as quickly as he'd intiated it. John didn't have time to even register what was happening, let alone reciprocate. Immediately after, Sherlock had rolled over and switched off the bedside lamp, mumbling goodnight and seeming to fall asleep within seconds. John knew he was pretending at first - nobody, not even Sherlock bloody Holmes, can fall asleep that fast - but now he's slackened up and his breathing has slowed. He's definitely out cold now, and John wishes he could get the same way.  _  
_

Is this, he wonders, what all the cuddling all this time has been about? Is that why Sherlock held his hand earlier? Because he's got... some kind of crush on John? That causes John to panic. Oh god. Has he been giving off the wrong signals? Does Sherlock think John likes him back? Oh dear Lord, this is awkward. How the hell is he going to explain this one?

Suddenly, for no apparent  reason, his mind is pulled back to the previous Sunday. 

* * *

Like most Sundays, John had a rugby match. Home, this week, against a team from a school that is a twenty-minute bus ride away and has much better sporting facilities than theirs. But John was hopeful. They've got a good team this year, and the new kid, Phil Anderson was playing the for them for the first time and he's good. Really good. A little cocky off the pitch, really fancies himself as a ladies man, but an amazing player and on Sunday, that's all John cared about. Maybe, with him in tow, they could actually  _win_ a match for once. 

John's parents couldn't make it, but that didn't really phase him. They often can't make his matches; they both need to work weekends to make ends meet. Sherlock was there though; he makes a point of being at every match, though he barely understands the game at all. He stood in his usual place on the sidelines, Harry faithfully at his side, the two of them wearing scarves in the team's colours. She doesn't understand the game any more than Sherlock does, but they've taken it upon themselves to cheer John on any time he gets remotely near the ball and it honestly gives him the morale boost that he needs when his team is losing hard. 

John couldn't help but notice the dirty look the new kid shot Sherlock when he spotted him on the sidelines. He felt a little swell of anger at first, but he shrugged it off. He doubted Sherlock would even care; he's never gave much of a fuck if people at school like him or not. Anyway, he didn't suppose that Anderson knew much about Sherlock anyway, and Sherlock  _did_ sort of stand out from the rest of the crowd. He wasn't doing anything particularly strange or special, just standing talking to Harry. But there's something about the way he holds himself, a sort of eerie grace, that makes him the first thing anyone sees. Plus, he's a head taller than the majority of the mums on the sidelines and he's got those fantastic cheekbones and that jacket with the collar turned up. There's something about him that is dark and brooding and mysterious and...  _sexy._

 _Dammit John, get your head in the game._ John had cursed himself because he stared at Sherlock for too long (as he often does) and had lost his mojo, lost his 'zone'. It'd take him forever to get back there. 

***

They lost the match. 

It was hardly a surprise - they've had the longest losing streak in the area for nearly three years now - but the lads still grumbled about it in the showers and change room. Still, they all managed to clap the new boy on the back and congratulate him. As captain, John felt it was his duty to do so more than others, and approached Phil with a forced smile on his face. 

"Good game today, mate," he'd said. "You're really great." 

"Thanks," Anderson had said, looking John up and down. "That gangly bloke watching today, the one with the legs and the cheekbones..." 

"Sherlock?" John provided and Anderson waved his hand as if his name didn't really matter. 

"Yeah, him," he shrugged. "Are you and he... are you like... boyfriends? 'Cause I don't mind if you are... y'know... gay... but Sally reckons he's a bit..." 

"You want to know if I'm going out with Sherlock Holmes?" John repeated it. "Of course I'm bloody not." 

"Like I said, I really don't mind if you are but..." Anderson started up again. 

"Well even if I was, it wouldn't matter to me if you 'minded' or not," John said. "But that's beside the point. I'm straight." 

"I can vouch for him there, mate," Ronnie - one of the lads who John has been friends with since Year Seven - chipped in. "Proper ladies man, our Johnno." 

"There. See. I'm not gay," John said, with a grateful smile at Ronnie. 

"I mean... Sherlock is though, right? Gay, I mean," Ronnie said, and John frowned. 

"I..." he was about to say of course not, but he stopped himself. Come to think of it, he's not really sure of Sherlock's sexuality. He often teases his friend about fancying male actors and singers, but Sherlock is yet to confirm or deny whether he does or not. Actually, he's never known Sherlock say he finds  _anyone_ sexually attractive. He readily critisizes John's taste in women (though that's probably just so he can be a contrary prick) but has never stated any preference himself. Realizing they're all still staring at him for an answer John just shrugs. "I dunno. I mean... he's pretty much asexual as far as I know." 

"Ooh, hey up, lads," Brad - a blond boy who John's never really been keen on - piped up. "He hesitated there. Who would've thought it, eh? Captain Johnny, got himself a little crush on Sherlock Holmes, of all people." 

"Look, I do not fancy Sherlock Holmes, alright?" John said, starting to get pissed off now. "I'm straight, and nobody is going to change that. Not Sherlock or anybody else." 

The first thing John saw when he turned around was Sherlock, well within earshot, smirking at him with a mischevous glint in his eye. 

* * *

That  _bastard._

It makes sense now John thinks about it. This is such a typically Sherlock-y thing to do. Try to prove John wrong, because God forbid John should ever be  _right_ about anything when Sherlock could be right instead. John has half a mind to wake him up and tell him what a fucking prat he is, that's it not fair to mess with people's sexuality and emotions like this, doesn't he  _know_ that? You can't just do that to people. It's morally wrong. 

John's ready to whack him one with the pillow, but he pauses when Sherlock rolls over and pyjama top slips, revelaing his left shoulder and collar bone. There's a bruise there, about the size of an adult male hand, as if Sherlock's been grabbed and squeezed or (more likely, John thinks) shaken roughly. Whether it's from Sherlock's dad or Mycroft, John can't tell, but it makes any anger he feels towards Sherlock melt away.  _Poor sod,_ John thinks. John can't get mad or fall out with him. He's not really got many friends. In fact, as far as John knows, he's Sherlock's only proper friend. Oh, Sherlock sits with Molly Hooper when John's got detention or rugby practise over lunchtime and he talks to Greg Lestrade sometimes because they sit together in Chemistry and are both interested in going into detective work, but they're just at-school friends. His shopping plans next weekend are the first time John's heard Sherlock even mention spending time with either of them outside of school. 

It's not that Sherlock doesn't want friends, of course. He may not give a damn if he's liked or not, but John knows he craves companionship as much as the next person. Thing is, he never really learned how to make friends. Sherlock rarely goes into detail about his personal life, but John's not daft, he's worked most of it out for himself from the little Sherlock has told him, and the even littler he's observed himself. Sherlock's been told from a young age that he's not good enough. He's not as smart as Mycroft and he's cockier than Mycroft and he's more arrogant than Mycroft and his people skills aren't as good as Mycroft's and (though he'll deny it furiously) he's shier than Mycroft. He's not _Mycroft_ enough to win their dad's approval. Of course, being the golden child, Mycroft has never done anything to stop their father saying what he does  to Sherlock. Why should he? Makes him sound better. Even their mother, who Sherlock adores, isn't much better. True, she's generous with the hugs and kisses if Sherlock's driven to tears (which John knows is more often than he lets on), but she never tells Sherlock that he _isn't_ all the things Sherlock's dad says he is. She never offers comforting words further than  _it's alright sweetheart, there, there, don't cry._ Sherlock  _does_ want friends. He's just grown up believing that nobody likes him anyway, so what's the point in trying? 

John doesn't realise he's got tears in his eyes until one trickles down his cheek. He wipes it away furiously and sits up, sniffing. He looks across the room and notices that the picture of he and Sherlock is pinned directly across from it, where it can be seen straight away from the bed. That makes him smile a bit. It's not a particularly great photo; it's a little too bright so their faces are kind of washed-out and its sort of grainy but they're both grinning like loons and it's the only photograph John's seen of the curly-haired boy where he looks genuinely  _happy._

With a sigh, John decides against punching Sherlock awake and demanding to know what the fuck he's doing with this little... experiment, involving John's sexuality. Instead, he straightens Sherlock's shirt up again, hiding the horrible bruise from view, and resolves to ask about it calmly in the morning. 


	5. Five

Sherlock holds onto John for as long as possible that weekend.

Incidentally, that means John stays until its time for his rugby match on Sunday afternoon. Its an away match, so Sherlock can't go, and John's folks are taking Harry this time anyway, so there's not really much reason for him to go. He just doesn't want his little blond companion to go. Sherlock doesn't mind being alone. In fact, he absolutely loves being alone, alone is what protects him. What he's not so keen on, though, is loneliness, and that's something he's been feeling a lot recently. He doesn't really understand why, and that frustrates him, because he likes to understand everything. But he knows that as of recently, even at school where there's over 900 other people, he feels lonely all the time. Even when he's in chemistry and he and Lestrade are talking about crimes they've seen on the news, or when he's in the cafeteria with Molly and she's being far too obvious by fiddling with her hair and fluttering her eyelashes at him. These days, the only times he doesn't feel lonely are the times when John is tagging along with him.

These feelings he's been having for John are weird, and Sherlock doesn't really know what to do about them. He's not very good at emotions and sentiment. So he did what he does best and researched it. Apparently he's supposed to test the feelings out, see if John feels the same. That's comfort. It makes it feel more... scientific. Like an experiment. The cuddling was a happy coincidence, something that's been happening more or less since they became friends, though Sherlock has been pressing closer and squeezing tighter recently, and John doesn't seem to have any qualms. He was startled by the hand-holding, Sherlock noticed almost straight away, but he didn't let go or even loosen his grip, though he wiggled his fingers. He also let Sherlock keep his jumper, which is a promising sign. The kiss was supposed to be Sherlock's biggest move, but he chickened out at the last minute. He was scared. He's never kissed anyone before John, so he wasn't really entirely sure what to expect, but the internet said that John should press his lips back against Sherlock's and melt into his arms and just relax into it. But he didn't. He tensed up under Sherlock's forearms and he didn't push his lips against Sherlock's. He did the opposite; his head jerked back ever so slightly and that was Sherlock's cue to pull away. He didn't talk about it afterwards. Just pretended it never happened. He thought John was mad at him, but he felt gentle, calloused fingers on his skin late in the night. It didn't make him any less unsure.

Sherlock's train of thought is interrupted by the front door banging. He's barely got time to get to his feet and brush himself down before his parents come into the room.

"Hello, darling," his mother breezes across the room, in that way that she does, and stretches to kiss him on the cheek.

"Hi, Mum," he replies, returning the favour. "How was Scotland?"

"Oh, miserable, sweetheart. Rained the whole time we were there. Didn't it, Richard?" she turns to the doorway, where Sherlock's father stands. He ignores her question. Instead he regards Sherlock coldly.

"Mycroft got a promotion this weekend," he informs his younger son. 

"Hi, Dad," Sherlock replies. "I'm great, thanks. And you?" 

"Don't be insolent, boy," his father grumbles. "Your brother got promoted at work." 

"Yes, I heard. That's excellent for him - I'll send him flowers," Sherlock says. His father's jaw tightens and he gives Sherlock that look that just screams  _you're asking for a slap._

"Don't be so sarcastic," he growls. "Have you done  _anything_ since we left?" 

"Oh, I've done a number of things," Sherlock says, and he begins counting them off on his fingers. "Oh, let's see. I had a shower. I slept. Did the homework that's actually worth my time. Watched a film. Breathing, did a lot of breathing. Blinking, too. Oh, and-" 

"Anything that's actually worthwhile?" his father asks. "Do you  _ever_ do anything worthwhile, come to that? Look at your brother. He was already making waves at your age -  _before_ your age, actually - had a stable job by the time he was twenty. Why can't you be like him?" 

"The day I  _want_ to be a pompous twat, a mindless government drone and quite frankly a diabolical dresser, I'll let you know," Sherlock shoots back. "Until then I'm quite happy  _not_ being like Mycroft, thanks." 

"Don't you have any ambition in your life at all?" his father sighs, sounding exasperated. "Do you ever want to be even remotely successful? Or are you planning to spend your whole life as a failure and a disappointment?" 

"Not sure. I'll let you know as soon as I work it out," he knows how unwise it is to cheek his father, but Sherlock's never been particularly wise. "Can I leave now? I need a cigarette." 

"No you don't. You're seventeen. You aren't going to start smoking," his father warns, and Sherlock has to fight to not laugh out loud. 

"Yes, well, thank you for the rare concern about my health, but you're actually about three years too late for that," Sherlock shrugs. 

"Where on earth were you getting cigarettes at fourteen?" its his mum who asks that one, and that surprises Sherlock a bit. She knows he smokes - she's seen the ashtray in his room and often empties it for him so his father won't find out. He turns to face her, and all of a sudden realises what she's doing. She's giving him an escape route. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock shrugs. "Mycroft used to buy them for me. Did up until last year, in fact." 

"Don't lie because you think it'll get your brother in trouble," his dad snarls. 

"I'm not," Sherlock says, with a shrug. "Ask him if you don't believe me, I'm sure he'll have no trouble in telling you. Why don't we phone him right now in fact? I-" 

Sherlock gets his phone out but his father knocks it out of his hand. Sherlock doesn't have time to protest it much before he's dealt a sharp slap so hard it jerks his head to the side and makes him stagger back a step. He stands rooted to the spot. The whole left side of his face burns and he wants to rub his cheek to soothe it, but refuses to give his father that kind of satisfaction. He doesn't lift his hand, doesn't move at all. He waits for his dad to make the next move, expecting another slap or a punch. What he does get is much, much more painful.

"Be mad at your brother, if you want - though I can tell a mile off it's only jealousy. I'll acknowledge his flaws. He's only human. At least he isn't a junkie. You're pathetic, Sherlock." 

Sherlock doesn't even stop to tell his father that a few grams now and then doesn't make him a junkie. He goes silently up to his room, muttering every swear he can think of under his breath to get rid of some of the anger. 

* * *

Its hours before anyone comes up to talk to him. 

He doesn't even leave his room for dinner, but that doesn't matter. He has strange eating patterns anyway, often going days without anything substantial. His body has learned to cope with it - not that that matters. His mind is the only thing that matters. The rest is just transport. That's why he so often forgets to sleep until he just crashes out. John's constantly on at him about that. He's got plans to be a doctor, so he's looking after his health and does his best to look after Sherlock's too. It's usually in vain, but Sherlock appreciates the gesture. 

At around ten, the door opens and his mum's there. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, and Sherlock just shrugs. The side of his face aches and his jaw and teeth feel weird, but he's not about to tell her that. He doesn't want to upset her. She so hates when he and Dad fight. Sherlock would avoid it if he had any other way of defending himself. Her footsteps clack across the room and she stops behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Oh, Sherlock." 

"I'm fine," he says, though his cheeks are wet and flushed. 

"You shouldn't upset your dad so," she says, stroking his hair. 

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Sherlock sniffs. "Mycroft used to buy me fags. Still does, sometimes. How can he get mad about straight fact?" 

"You know the way he is, darling. He's so protective of your brother, won't have him slandered," his mum cuddles him close. "Don't cry, my darling. It's okay." 

"I wasn't..." Sherlock's about to say that what he said wasn't slander, it was the truth, but he knows there's no point. Despite the cuddles and the closeness, Mum's on Dad's side and Sherlock knows it. "Why does he hate me so much?" 

"You're not as successful as Mycroft is, darling. He's disappointed in you, that's all," she tells him, like its supposed to offer some sort of comfort. But it does the opposite. It reminds Sherlock that Mycroft is pretty much better than him in every way possible and that he's a disappointment, puts shame on the name 'Holmes'. He also knows its a lie. He's been a disappointment to his father since the day they brought him home from the hospital seventeen years ago. It's got nothing to do with how unsuccessful he is. 

Mum holds him for a long time, before turning to leave in silence. She's at the door when a thought strikes him. 

"Mum?" she turns. "Am I... are you dissapointed in me, too?" 

"Goodnight, Sherlock," she replies, switching off the light and closing the door. 

It's with that thought in mind that Sherlock takes out his phone and dials the only number he knows by heart. 


	6. Six

John's ringtone cuts through his sleep. With a groan, he rolls over and blinks at the glowing red digits on his alarm clock.  _23:52._ Who the hell is calling him at this time? He can hazard a guess. One check to the caller ID confirms it for him, and for a second he considers not answering. Then he decides he'd better, because it's got to be bloody important for Sherlock to ring rather than text. 

"Yeah?" he answers, sleepily. "This'd better be important, Sherlock."

"Can you let me in?" Sherlock's voice is dry and cracked, as if his throat is worn out. As if he's been crying. 

"Where are you?" John asks, with a sigh, as he swings his legs out of bed and hunts for a pair of pants to put on. 

"Outside your house," Sherlock tells him, and one peek out of his bedroom window confirms that Sherlock is, indeed, standing on the pavement outside, leaning against a lampost and watching John's bedroom. John groans. 

"Really? Seriously? What if I'd not answered the phone?" John says. 

"I'd've thrown things at your window 'til you woke up," is Sherlock's response, and John honestly wouldn't put it past him. "Hurry up. It's freezing." 

"Alright, I'm coming. Are you okay?" John's on his way down the stairs now. He's whispering, cautious of waking Harry or his parents. Sherlock doesn't answer, just hangs up the phone. John sighs and grumbles as he pockets his mobile. He fumbles in the dark for the hallway light switch and opens the door as quietly as he can. Sherlock steps in without a word, and John's grateful for that. He's paler than usual, though his cheeks are flushed. He'll insist it's from the cold, but his eyelashes are still damp and spikey, so John can tell that's not true. They go worldlessy into the front room, where Sherlock sits in the corner of the couch. He's staring at the ground, still snuffling a bit. John bites his lip, feeling awkward. He goes to switch on the light but Sherlock asks softly for him to leave it off.

"You alright, mate?" he asks, gently, and Sherlock lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes. He shakes his head, and John shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Right. Sorry. Stupid question. Uh... d'you want a cup of tea?" 

When Sherlock nods, John goes through to the kitchen, almost thankful to get out of the room. It's strange, the awkwardness. It's not something John's ever felt around Sherlock before. The brunette makes others uncomfortable with his deductions and those piercing blue eyes but John's never felt anything but safe and happy in Sherlock's company. He thinks Sherlock's brilliant, and Sherlock likes how quick and wise John is with medical stuff. They can actually hold an intellectually stimulating conversation for more than five minutes - more than either of them manage with most other people they know - and they have a laugh together. They're best friends, as close as brothers. 

It's amazing to John how one tiny kiss could change that. 

John takes the two steaming mugs into the front room and sets one in front of Sherlock. The taller boy immediately picks it up, nursing it in his icy fingers, desperately trying to draw some warmth into them. John sits beside him somewhat awkwardly and pats his arm. 

"What's up?" he asks, and Sherlock lets out a breath - a long shuddery breath that makes John forget the awkwardness and shuffle a little bit closer. 

"I'm sorry," is all Sherlock says. "I'm so sorry." 

"Don't be sorry," John says, his hand lingering on Sherlock's arm, perhaps for too long. "It's alright."

"No, it isn't," Sherlock says. "It isn't alright at all, John. I'm so confused. So  _fucking_ confused." 

"Wh-what are you confused about?" John asks.  

" _You,_ " Sherlock groans. "I just... I don't  _know_ John, and I hate it. I hate not knowing. I don't  _do_ emotions, John. I've got too many of them, right now. And it's your fault. I feel... good when I'm with you. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not really a cuddly or affectionate person. But with you it just... it feels right. I'm so confused, John." 

"Um... right," John clears his throat. "Sorry about that." 

"You should be," Sherlock says, but John can tell he's half-joking. They both laugh though it's not funny at all. When they're done, Sherlock sighs and shifts closer, resting his head on John's shoulder. Without giving it much thought, John places a small kiss on his head and rubs Sherlock's back gently. Sherlock appreciates it and relaxes more agaist John. He sighs deeply. "Are you mad at me?" 

"Mad?" John repeats, spluttering. "Sherlock, I've just let you into my house and made you a cup of tea at midnight because you randomly arrived outside my house and asked to be let in. D'you think I'd do that if I was mad at you?" 

"I suppose not," Sherlock sighs. "Thank you." 

"It's no problem," John says. They sit in the quiet for a long time. Then John swallows. "There's no shame in being confused, mate. None at all. In-In fact... I'm pretty confused too." 

"You're confused?" Sherlock repeats, peering at John. "What are you confused about?" 

"I'm confused as to why you didn't let me do this last time," John whispers, leaning forwards until their lips touch. 

* * *

It's a longer kiss than last time - they actually get to move their lips together this time. John's definitely the more experienced, so Sherlock lets him take control, just going with everything John does. Kissing is totally new to him, and he's pleasantly surprised that it's infinitely better than the research he's done. John's lips are full and soft and he tastes faintly of tea and toast and spearmint chewing gum. Gentle, calloused fingers weave their way into Sherlock's curls and, after a moment's hesitation, his own hands rest on John's hips. Seconds later, the big light snaps on and they hear a gasp on the other side of the room. 

"For fuck's sake, Harry!" John hisses, as they break apart. "What are you doing up?" 

"I heard voices," she says, her eyes flitting between them. "Where you two  _kissing_?" 

"Yes. No. Maybe. Go to bed," John mutters. 

"No," Harry folds her arms across her chest. "It's after midnight, why is Sherlock here? You  _were_ kissing, why were you kissing? Why are  _you_ up? What are you doing?" 

"Oh my -" John takes a deep breath. "Look, Harry. If you go to bed and stop asking questions, I'll buy you a bag of fizzy cola bottles on the way to school."

"Make it two and you have a deal," Harry raises one eyebrow. 

"Fine, if you promise not to tell Mum and Dad. Just go, please," John rubs the space between his eyebrows and Harry looks satisfied, turning and heading back up the stairs. John waits until he hears her go along the landing and back to her bedroom. Then he turns back to Sherlock, and they smile awkwardly at each other. 

"I should go," Sherlock says.  

"You can stay, if you want," John says. Then he blushes because he realises what that must've sounded like. Sherlock chuckles. 

"I'd better not," he says. "Thanks for the offer, but my parents don't actually know I'm gone. I'd better get back, they'll go mad if I'm not in when they get up." 

"Well... okay," John follows Sherlock to the door to see him out. They pause on the threshold and exchange an awkward brushing of lips as they say goodbye. 

"I'll see you at school," Sherlock smiles. 

"Yeah," John replies. "See you at school." 

John waits until Sherlock has vanished past the end of the street before he shuts the door and goes to bed himself. 


	7. Seven

John feels awkward when he gets to school. 

He knows it's unreasonable, but he's just got this feeling that everyone at school  _knows._ Not that he's  _ashamed_ of kissing Sherlock per se, he'd just rather not have everyone know he snogged a bloke last night, that's all. He finds himself almost dreading seeing the taller boy sensing the inevitable awkwardness that only he would feel; Sherlock seems to have no concept of awkwardness at all, and if he does he hides it well.

John's in luck, though, and Sherlock doesn't appear to be at school that day. It's not unusual, really; Sherlock often skips the lessons he deems 'boring', which is the majority of them. Still, John's worried that Sherlock is upset or offended and it's his fault. That's the last thing he wants. He shrouds it well under a mask of indifference, but Sherlock's a wreck and John knows it. He doesn't want to cause his friend any more emotional grief. He just wants him to be happy. That's what the kiss was about, he tells himself. He just wanted to make Sherlock feel better. Make him happy, like he said he feels when he's with John. It wasn't because John's _attracted_ to him. And it certainly wasn't because John's _gay,_  because he isn't. Just a good friend. 

Sherlock waltzes into their shared Maths class, last lesson, twenty minutes late. The teacher raises his eyebrows but Sherlock mutters something which he obviously accepts, because he waves the brunette to his seat at the back of the class. He slots in beside John and smiles. 

"Hi," he says, casually. 

"Hiya," John replies, trying  to keep his tone the same. "Where've you been?" 

"Somewhere," Sherlock says, and John can tell he's being deliberately vague. 

"What were you doing?" John wants to know. Sherlock shrugs. 

"Something you don't need to worry about," Sherlock assures John, with as comforting a grin as he can manage. 

"Okay. Alright ," John says, turning his eyes back to his worksheet. It's only then that he notices that Sherlock hasn't even got his pen or his book out. John looks at him, confused. Sherlock always at least  _tries_ to look like he's doing some work, to avoid getting in trouble with the teacher. He also notices the way Sherlock's right hand is clenched into a fist, shaking slightly with the obvious effort of keeping it that way. "Sherlock. What happened to your hand?" 

"Nothing, my hand's fine," Sherlock holds up his left hand, showing John both sides and flexing his fingers. "See?" 

" _This_ hand," John picks up his right arm and Sherlock winces. 

"Don't be so rough," he says, easing his arm gently out of John's grip. 

"Sorry," John says, swallowing. He prises Sherlock's fingers open as carefully as he can and examines his hand, feeling for broken bones. He doesn't find any, though there's a lot of bruising and a little swelling. There's no break, but there's definitely a sprain, and it looks like a bad one. John looks up, meeting Sherlock's eye. "What happened?" 

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbles, covering his hand over with his sweater sleeve. 

" _Nothing_ doesn't sprain your hand, Sherlock," John scolds. Then he sighs. "Was it your dad?" 

"No," Sherlock says, quietly. Then he takes a deep breath. "I had an argument with Mycroft and I got really mad and punched the wall." 

"Sherlock," John tuts. "Have you been to the hospital?" 

"No," Sherlock sighs. 

"Well, why don't you come to mine after school? I'm sure it's just a sprain, I can probably strap that up for you," John tells him, and Sherlock fixs him with such a devestating smile that he can't help adding "Mum and Dad are working late and Harry's at a friend's house after school. Maybe we could pick up where we left off last night?" 

Sherlock's smile just widens at that. 

* * *

They walk to John's maybe a little bit faster than usual and John goes for the first aid kit as soon as they get into the house. He's  good at these things. He wants to be a doctor, so he's researched. Plus, Harry does dance and gymnastics, so she often gets similar injuries. He's had a lot of practise. He straightens Sherlock's fingers out (which earns him a lot of protest) and wraps it in an elastic bandage. After he's pinned it in place he meets Sherlock's eyes. 

"You'll want to keep it immobilised as much as possible," John advises. "Don't move your fingers if you can help it. Your wrist, either. And keep it as dry as possible as well. I'd recommend bathing rather than showering for a bit, so you can keep it out of the water. If it does get wet just give me a ring or come round and I can change the dressing for you. It should be okay to take off in a week or so, but even after that you'll have to rest it for a little while. What?" he notices Sherlock is staring at him with a strange expression written all over his face. John expects something sassy or snippy, but Sherlock smiles at him. 

"You're gonna be an excellent doctor one day," he says, softly. John grins back, and takes Sherlock's good hand in his own. 

"C'mon. Let's go up to my room. It's more comfortable," he whispers. Sherlock nods, following John up the stairs and along the landing to his bedroom. 

Sherlock likes John's bedroom more than his own, always has. John complains that it's too small, but Sherlock thinks it's perfect. Cosy and comfortable - his own feels far too big, even with the black walls and carpet. John's is the same blue he chose when he was eight, though he's pulled down the embarrassing dinosaur border that used to run round the room. The carpet used to be blue too, but it's faded over the years to a sort of sludge-grey. The room is much neater than Sherlock's, though it'd be hard to be less so. There are posters pinned up around the room, of bands and movies that John likes and England's rugby team and Muhammed Ali in his heyday. There's a world map too and a few pictures of John and friends (there's several which include Sherlock, which gives him a little swell of pride). 

"Hey, dreamer. Get over here," John's soft voice interrupts his thoughts. Sherlock turns to see John sitting on the edge of his bed, patting the space next to him. Sherlock cautiously moves over and perches beside the blond, who takes his good hand, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. The taller boy swallows and bites his lip, watching the trail of John's digits over his hand. John's other hand comes up under his chin and gently lifts his head until they're looking each other in the eyes. "You alright?" 

"Great," Sherlock breathes, squeezing John's hand. That's encouragement enough for John, who gently pushes Sherlock down until he's lying flat on the bed. John goes to lie down beside him, but Sherlock pulls him down on top instead. They lie like that for a bit, Sherlock's hands resting on the small of John's back, John propping himself up on his forearms so he can smile down at the tall, slim boy underneath him. And God, he's never noticed before how truly gorgeous Sherlock is. His face is pratically angelic, framed by those soft black curls. And  _damn_ those cheekbones. They're like a work of art, could've been carved from marble. He's got pretty eyes too, ice blue, with tiny flecks of green and brown here and there. They're fixed on John's lips now, and his own are subconciously pouting. John stares as long as he can take it, and then he dips down and lets their lips touch. 

That's all it is at first. A tentative touching of lips-on-lips. After a moment, John dares to add a little more pressure, and that's pretty weill-received by Sherlock. His eyes flutter closed and he pushes his lips back against John's. A second later, John's eyes close too and he sucks Sherlocks bottom lip gently. This elects a sigh from the taller boy that makes John grin. They carry on like that for five minutes, moving their lips together, letting their hands roam. Sherlock's startled when John slips tongue in, but nervously returns the gesture a second later. However, John clearly gets too brave when he moves his hands up inside Sherlock's shirt. 

Sherlock breaks the kiss and pulls away from John, blushing. 

"Don't," he mumbles. "I mean... I... I don't... I haven't... I just... just don't." 

He turns his head away, his blush deepening, and he mutters an apology. John bites his lip. 

"No,  _I'm_ sorry," he whispers. "Sherlock... mate...babe... look at me." Sherlock hesitates, but obliges, and John pushes curls off of the tall boys forehead. "I'm going too fast, aren't I? Look. I'm not put off by being your first. If anything, it's more endearing. We'll take it slow, yeah? At  _your_ pace. You don't have to do anything you aren't comfortable with. Okay?" 

"Thank you," Sherlock buries his head in John's neck to hide his blush and John laughs, stroking Sherlock's hair. 

"No problem. Let's watch telly, eh?" John says, and they shift so they're lying side by side, John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's good arm around John's waist. John flicks the TV on, leaving it on the first channel that appears since he doesn't really plan on watching it much. He feels the warm soft pressure of Sherlock's lips on his head and then hears a sigh. 

"John? What does this make us?" Sherlock asks, and John squirms a little uncomfortably. 

"I dunno," he says. He doesn't really want to discuss what they are, because then he's got to think about what  _he_ is, and that's not something he wants to have consider. He doesn't particularly want to have a boyfriend, not yet. Not until he's figured out his feelings. He clears his throat. "Friends with benefits?" 

"Friends with benefits," Sherlock repeats. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. That sounds fun." 

And they kiss again. 

 


	8. Eight

"John! I'm home!" 

John's mum's voice comes up the stairs, causing the two boys to pull apart. They're both flashed and breathing heavily, Sherlock's hair ruffled from John's tugging hands. John laughs at that and uses his fingers to flatten it down (or to the extent that Sherlock's hair  _will_ flatten - for the most part the curls are stubborn and spring straight back up again.) Sherlock smirks back and wipes John's lips, wet from a combination of their saliva, with his thumb. John grimaces. 

"Minger," he says. 

"You've just had your tongue down my throat and I'm a minger for touching your spit?" Sherlock raises one eyebrow, and John shoves him playfully. 

"Alright, you've made your point smart-arse," he says, with a smirk. 

"John! Are you alright up there, sweetheart?" his mum's voice comes again, and John rolls his eyes. 

"Come on, we'd best go down before she decides I've been murdered and calls the police," John gets up off the bed and goes down the stairs, Sherlock closely following behind. 

John's mum is in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. She looks up when they enter the room, and then grins broadly. 

"Hello, Sherlock, love," she says. "I didn't realise you were here. Are you okay, darling?" 

"I'm great, thanks. And you?" Sherlock leans across the breakfast bar and smiles. 

Sherlock gets on with John's parents much better than he gets on with his own. John's mum is short and blonde, like him, with the same kind smile and friendly manner. She's into affection in a big way and constantly smothers John and Harry in hugs. His dad is taller with mousey-brown hair and a moustache and glasses. He's not as big on hugging but he frequently gives John affection pats on the back and hair ruffles. They go down the pub together sometimes to watch the rugby and he calls John 'bud'. Sherlock likes them because they're  _ordinary._ They act the way a family should. 

* * *

Harry comes home when the three of them are watching TV and having a cup of tea in the lounge. 

"Hiya Mum," she says. Then she smirks. "Hi, John. Hi, Sherlock." 

John flashes her a look that says  _don't you dare_ and she just smiles wider. She sits on the side of John which isn't occupied by Sherlock. John grits his teeth and feels every muscle in his body tense up. Sherlock obviousl feels up and gives John's fingers a squeeze that's subtle and comforting and reassuring. Or it would be, if Harry didn't see it and smirk at John again. 

"Not. A. Word," John hisses to her, and she laughs but disguises it as a coughing fit at the last minute. John takes a deep breath through his nose, not even wanting to think about what bribery this would take. 

* * *

Sherlock doesn't leave until late evening. John insists on walking him to the park, which is exactly halfway betwen their houses, thinking he can get a cheeky goodbye snog in. But of course, Harry clamours to come and when John says no, his mum tells him not to be so mean and she ends up tagging along for the walk. She skips ahead, obviously loving the blackmail she can carry out with the information she now has. 

"She's a little witch," he mutters, more to himself  than anything, and Sherlock laughs, blowing out a smoke ring. 

"Don't be so bitter, John. She won't tell," he says. 

"What makes you think that?" John wants to know. " _Look_ at her, she's loving it. She's gonna hang this over me forever." 

"She'll pretend she's going to tell but she never will really," Sherlock insists. " _That's_ what she'll hang over you. Just don't let her win." 

"She always wins," John sighs, not wanting to admit it. They're at the park now, and Sherlock throws his cigarette stub on the ground, grinding it under his heel. He sighs heavily. 

"Well. This is where we part ways," he says, stepping towards John, who leans back, confused. 

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John says. 

"Kissing you goodbye," Sherlock tells him, looking equally confused. "Do you not want that?" 

"Not in front of Harry," John mumbles, and Sherlock laughs and turns to the girl. 

"Harry, you aren't going to tell your parents about this, are you?" he asks, and she smiles and mimes sealing her lips. "Good girl." 

John and Sherlock's first kiss goodbye is a sweet open-mouths-no-tongues affair. Sherlock tastes of cigarettes and bubblemint gum and John knows it should be unpleasant but it really isn't. When they pull apart, Sherlock smiles and kisses John's forehead. 

"Goodnight, John. I'll see you tomorrow," he says, quietly, before turning and walking away. 

* * *

"Is Sherlock your boyfriend now?" Harry's been babbling on since they left the park and John's doing pretty well at ignoring her. "Hey, does this mean you're gay? Do I have a gay brother? This is awesome. Does it mean you're gonna come shopping with me and stuff?" 

"Harry, shut up," John groans. "I'm not gay. And Sherlock isn't my boyfriend. We're just... we're just friends." 

"If you're just friends, why do you kiss him?" she wants to know, and John rubs the bridge of his nose. 

"It's complicated," he says, groaning at the impossibility of ever explaining friends with benefits to an 11-year-old. 

"Hey have you had sex with him?" she asks, and John finds himself staring dumbfounded at her. 

"Oh my God, Harry. You're  _eleven_ and my  _sister._ You can't just ask me stuff like that. I don't even wanna know where you've learned about sex. Jesus," he says. 

"That means you have," she looks smug and John shakes his head. 

"No. It doesn't. Because if you really must know, I haven't," John clears his throat. 

"So you just snog then?" she asks. 

"Jesus Christ, Harry. Yes, we just snog," he says. "Can't we stop talking about it now? You're making me uncomfortable." 

"Why?" she asks her head on one side. 

"Because," is the only answer he has. "You aren't going to tell Mum and Dad, are you?" 

There's quiet for a few minutes then she smiles. 

"Of course not," she says, before skipping off ahead up their road. John smiles. For all they argue, and for all he complains, he really does love his sister. 

 


	9. Nine

Sherlock chainsmokes all the way home, because fuck his health, it's not like anyone  _cares._

He finds Mycroft standing at the end of the garden path, and he's smoking too. Ironic, really. Sherlock gets bitchslapped for bringing up Mycroft smoking, and yet here is, not fifty yards away from their father, with a cigarette hanging between his lips. Sherlock wonders what his parents would say if they saw it. Mum wouldn't care; she knows Mycroft smokes and, while she doesn't like it, she's never really protested it much. Dad would probably find a way to blame Sherlock for it. 

"Where've you been?" Mycroft asks. It's dark but Sherlock can just about make out the mock-concerned look on his brother's face.  

"Why? Were you all  _worried_ about me?" Sherlock says, bitterly. Mycroft sighs. 

"You don't always have to play the brooding loner you know," he says. "Heaven forbid I should wonder where my little brother is when he doesn't come home from school." 

"I was at John's," Sherlock shrugs. 

"He fancies himself as a doctor, doesn't he?" Mycroft asks. "Did he strap up your hand?" He nods at Sherlock's right hand, dangling by his side. He's smoking with his left, but he's always been more or less ambidextrous with cigarettes  so it's not neccesarily a hinderance. Sherlock nods and Mycroft holds his hand out expectantly. With a sigh, Sherlock passes his hand over muttering for his brother to be gentle. Mycroft inspects the bandages carefully, then shrugs. 

"Seems I underestimated your friend. He's done a very professional job," he lets go of Sherlock's hand. "You really need to reign in your temper, Sherlock." 

"Or you all need to stop pushing me to lose it," Sherlock retorts, with a casual shrug. Mycroft's jaw sets and that's how Sherlock know's he's right, knows he's won. It's a rare victory, and he doesn't have long to enjoy it because it starts to rain and they both rush in through the door. Sherlock shakes his curls to get rid of the water droplets and Mycroft shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the coat rack. Their father is waiting for them in the hallway. He regards Sherlock coldly. 

"You reek of cigarettes," he informs his youngest son. 

"Do I? That's probably because I've smoked a lot of them," Sherlock says. "Can I go and have a shower?  Or are you going to keep me here for another of our lovely little back-and-forths?" 

 "Oh, just get out of my sight," their father snarls, and for once, Sherlock is glad of his brother's presence. No doubt some kind of argument would've ensued if their father wasn't so eager for boring politics talk with Mycroft. He strides off, up the stairs and into the bathroom. He remembers John's warning about not showering to keep the dressing dry, and grumbles as he drops the plug in the bath and turns on the hot tap. He hates baths - he's far too impatient to wait for it to fill. Showers are quick, easy. Baths mean waiting and waiting is boring. If anyone else had said it, Sherlock would probably go ahead and shower anyway, but John's pretty wised up on medical stuff. He wouldn't tell Sherlock to bathe instead if it wasn't absolutely necessary. He trusts John. 

Sherlock honestly can't believe his luck. He's never had anything that resembles any form of proper relationship before, not even friends with benefits. For his first to be with someone like John - someone so kind and sweet and cheerful and friendly and damn gorgeous - well, that's a stroke of luck if ever Sherlock knew one. It's not ideal, the whole 'friends-with-benefits' situation. Not exactly what Sherlock wanted, but its better than nothing and he'll take all he can get on that front. He loves kissing already, despite his lack of experience. But he panicked when John tried for flesh-on-flesh contact. He's never been that intimate with anyone before. In fact, before kissing John, he's never been more intimate than cuddling or holding hands. John's had more than his fair share of experience; being as good-looking as he is, as well as a nice guy and captain of the rugby team, he's generally got girls (and guys, come to that) falling over each other for his attention, though he doesn't seem to notice.  John could have his pick of any of the girls and most of the guys at school. And he's picked  _Sherlock._

It's enough to make Sherlock blush like a little girl. 

* * *

**_Miss you. SH._ **

_It's been two hours, Sherlock._

_**I know. Still miss you. SH.** _

_That's kind of adorable, actually._

_**Shut up. Adorable isn't what I aim for. SH.** _

_Oh? And what exactly DO you aim for, pray tell? ;)_

_**What does the winky face mean? SH.** _

_Doesn't matter._

_**Yes it does. It means there's a double-meaning to what you said. What was the other meaning? SH.** _

_Really. It doesn't matter. Forget about it._

_**Were you trying to initate sexting? SH.** _

_Initiate is a very unsexy word._

_**That means yes. SH.**   
_

_Well. Maybe._

**_I don't know how to sext. SH._ **

_That's okay. We're going at your pace, remember? :D_

_**Thank you :) SH.** _

Sherlock feels his face burning, slightly embarrassed by his own patheticness. He's even shy about the idea of cybersex, for God's sake. He knows John's well experienced in that front as well as the physical side of things. He believes that John is genuinely okay with taking it at Sherlock's pace, but he still feels like a disappointment when he can't do what John wants to. Still, it's early days. He's sure he'll be more confident soon enough. 

Because that's all it is. Confidence. He's scared he won't be good enough for John, the way he's never good enough for anyone else. But John was just as eager as Sherlock with the kissing. Just as hungry and desperate for it. He seems to be just as interested in Sherlock as Sherlock is in him. Sherlock finds himself grinning like a loon at the thought of John. The callouses on his palms and the pads of his fingers, the smoothness of the skin on his arms and neck, the silkiness of his hair, the firmness of his muscles, the strength of his arms around Sherlock's waist. And his  _smell._ That warm, soft smell like  toast and the tumble-dryer and soap. The smell of security and home. And he  _likes_ Sherlock. 

"He likes me," Sherlock has to say it out loud, just so he can hear it . And that makes his smile even wider. 

For the first time in months, Sherlock Holmes falls asleep happy. 

 


	10. Ten

They fall into a routine quickly. 

By Thursday, they've got it to a tee; they share glances and smiles all day at school, and they have lots of 'accidental' brushes on hand-on-hand in lessons where they sit together. At the end of the day, they go to John's house and snog on John's bed or the sofa until Harry gets home from school. Keeping her quiet is easier than John had anticipated; she's usually notorious for blackmailing him into doing what she wants him too. But she's suprisingly easy about this, her only demand being that John helps out with her Maths homework. Sherlock generally stays until well into the evening when John (and often Harry) will walk him to the park. 

This afternoon's different though. Sherlock links his arm through John's and steers him the wrong way when  they're heading home from school. 

"We're going to mine tonight," Sherlock says. 

"Why?" John wrinkles his nose. He's only met Sherlock's parents once. His mother is one of those women who spends a fortune on makeup to hide her age and swishes her way through life with a sweep of a scarf and a jangle of bracelets and the flash of a credit card. She's very eccentric in a  _kiss-kiss-Darling!_ kind of way and to be honest, John finds her a little intimidating. Mr Holmes is worse though. He's tall like Sherlock but broad-shouldered like Mycroft and he's got that kind of hair that looks like it's been parted with a ruler. He has a very serious demeaner and is incredibly conservative. He doesn't go in for man-hugs or playfighting the way John's dad does. He's very much a shake-hands-without-eye-contact sort of father. He also disapproves massively of homosexuality.

"You needn't look so worried. Mum and Dad are out," Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I want to go to mine tonight." 

John sighs and is about to complain, but he remembers what he said about taking this at Sherlock's pace and smiles instead. 

"Okay, then. Let's go to yours," he says, allowing Sherlock to lead the way. It's a longer walk from school to Sherlock's house but that's okay. It means John gets to hold his hand for longer and there is, admittedly, something alluring about watching Sherlock's breath on the air every time he speaks. He's speaking a lot, on one of his usual rants about how everyone at school is an idiot, especially their lowerclassmen, and how he shouldn't have to share corridors or valuable air with them. 

"And they're so fucking  _arrogant_ as well. I had one little shit threaten to stab me because I told him to move. Wankers," Sherlock concludes. John can't help laughing. It's always funny to hear Sherlock curse, though he does it probably more than he should. He's got a lovely speaking voice, deep and smooth, and he's reasonably well-spoken, so swears don't always fit into his pattern of speech. 

"You have a gorgeous laugh," Sherlock comments, briefly releasing John's hand to light up a cigarette. John's cheeks get warm and he realises he's blushing. 

"Thanks," he mumbles . Sherlock squeezes his hand.

"No problem, darling," he says, and John's taken aback by the pet name. He's never heard Sherlock call anyone by any kind of pet name before (except last year when he got in an argument with a teacher and called her 'sweetheart', but that was sarcastic and condescending, not affectionate). He doesn't really know how to respond, so he doesn't. Instead, he squeezes Sherlock's fingers in return and smiles at him. 

* * *

It takes them about half an hour to walk back to Sherlock's, by which time John is shivering and his teeth are chattering. 

Sherlock lets them in and, mercifully, the heating is on and the house is warm. He takes John's coat and hangs it on the rack in the hallway. He lights the coal fire in the front room and the room is at once filled with a comforting smell and a friendly crackle that makes John feel safe. Sherlock fetches hot chocolate for both of them and John appreciates the sweet warmth it brings to his hands and his lips. They drink together on the sofa, John cross-legged, Sherlock curled up with his feet in the smaller boy's lap. When the drinks are done he shifts, laying his head there instead, and John cards his fingers through Sherlocks hair. 

"This is nice," John breathes. 

"Yeah," Sherlock agrees, smiling. "I wish we could do it more often." 

"Mm," John mumbles, his hand pausing at the back of Sherlock's head. 

"I hate how he's always... lurking. He just watches me all the time, waits for me to trip up so he can take the piss," Sherlock sighs. "I hate him." 

John's a little shocked. Sherlock complains about his father no end, sometimes angry, sometimes upset, sometimes in tears. He's called the man every name under the sun a thousand times and often expresses his desires to get out of that house as soon as possible. But never once has John heard Sherlock say he actually  _hates_ his father. That's strong. Intense. John swallows. 

"He's a dick but..." John begins. 

"But I can't hate my own father?" Sherlock guesses. Then he scoffs. "Mycroft said the exact same. But I do, truly. This isn't teenage hormones or whatever, John. I hate him. It's alright, he hates me too. Tells me at least once a day, when he's around. He hates me because I'm not perfect like Mycroft. I'm nothing he wanted me to be. I'm not the child he wanted." 

"Sherlock..." John begins, but the brunette cuts him off. 

"I know what you're going to say. But it's true. I am literally not the child he wanted," he says. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He's never told anyone this before, though he himself hears it once a week at least. "They... they wanted a daughter. They already had a boy, their precious little Mycroft. They wanted a little girl to make their family perfect, make it complete. Mum had her 20 week scan and they said it was girl. Mum and Dad were over the moon, obviously. Got everything they ever wanted. But scans can be wrong. I got born and I was a boy and they were so disappointed. Mum cried, apparently. They didn't want me. If they'd known I was a boy they'd've had me aborted, Dad says. He resented me from the second I was born. Fobbed me off on nannies where they could, interacted with me as little as possible. He even told Mycroft he wasn't allowed to play with me, 'cause that'd give me ideas that someone actually wanted me here. He made damn sure I knew I wasn't wanted from day one. That's why I hate him." 

When his eyes flutter open, he sees tears glittering in John's. 

"Oh, Sherlock," is all the blond can say. "I'm sorry." 

"Why? You haven't done anything," Sherlock starts to say, but he's cut off by John's lips attacking his own. 

Its different from the kind of kissing they've grown accoustomed too. Usually the kisses are long and slow and gentle but this is fast and heavy and passionate and animalistic. Sherlock doesn't exactly hate it. This time, he lets John's hands go up his top and grope, does the same himself, uses his fingers to trace the bumps of John's spine, the arch of his shoulders, the taughtness of his chest. 

"Let's go to my room," he mumbles, biting John's lip gently. The blond nods and they stand, still kissing, and Sherlock backs John towards the door. 

They don't even make it as far as the hallway. Sherlock presses John's back against the wall and the smaller boys hands find the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Seconds later, a rush of air hits Sherlock's skin and he's vaguely aware that his button-down is on the ground near his feet. He finds himself tugging at the hem of John's t-shirt and grumbling when they have to break the kiss to pull it over his head.  _Note to self: suggest button-downs for John._ But then John's lips are back on his and any train of thought is well and truly derailed. John's belt somehow comes undone and his hands are now fumbling with the button on his jeans. 

"Oh, dear. Am I interrupting?" 

* * *

It's only the third time John's met Mycroft. 

Each time, John's amazed at how truly scary Mycroft is; for someone so startlingly ordinary-looking, he's damn intimidating. Sherlock's never gone into the specifics of his brother's job, but John knows he's very important and very influential in the government. It shows in the way he walks and talks and acts. Speaking to him stirs up distinct memories from John's childhood of being a seven year old sitting in the headmaster's office.

The second they realised Mycroft had entered  the room, John had pulled his top back on and fastened his jeans, mumbling apologies. Sherlock didn't. He folded his arms defiantly and refused to put his shirt on again. He's still refusing now, sitting next to John on the sofa. Mycroft is standing in front of them, half-full whiskey glass in hand, leaning against the mantlepiece. John half-expected to be read the riot act. But Mycroft is silent, as if he's contemplating what he's just seen. The quiet is worse than any lecture they could be given. Sherlock doesn't seem at all bothered on the surface; he's examining his fingernails as if he hasn't got a care in the world. But he won't look at John and he keeps biting his lip. He's just as nervous as John is. 

"Well," Mycroft says, eventually. "I have to say, I'm surprised at you, Sherlock." 

"Really? It's surprising to you that I like boys?" Sherlock quirks an eyebrow upwards. Mycroft chuckles. 

"No. What  _is_ suprising is that you'd bring a boy back here for sex when anybody could walk in," Mycroft's voice is as level and even as Sherlock's. 

"I wasn't expecting you to turn up here," Sherlock mumbles. 

"What if it'd been Mum coming home? Or Dad?" Mycroft asks. Sherlock stiffens at that. 

"You can't tell Dad," he says. Mycroft doesn't reply. Sherlock swallows. "Mycroft, please." 

"Sherlock, I'm only looking out for your best intrest," Mycroft says slowly. 

"Right. And getting me beaten up is in my best intrest?" Sherlock shoots back. "Because that's what he'll do if he finds out about this and we both know it." 

"I think you're overreacting," Mycroft says. Sherlock's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. With a sharp breath inwards, Sherlock turns and leaves the room. 

John gets up to follow him but Mycroft catches his arm. 

"Leave him," the elder Holmes advises. "You know what he's like when he's sulking. He'll want to be alone for a while." 

"You aren't going to tell your dad about this, are you?" John asks; he has a newfound confidence now that it comes to defending Sherlock. 

"Of course not," Mycroft says. "I know you don't have the best picture of me, John, but I'm no monster. Sherlock is my little brother, and I care a great deal about him. I don't want him to get hurt." 

"Right," is all John can say, because he's somewhat overwhelmed. He's always assumed, from the way Sherlock talks, that Mycroft treats him the same way as their father. It never really occured to him that Mycroft does the things he does to  _protect_ Sherlock. Things like telling their parents about finding drugs in Sherlock's room might not be just to get Sherlock in trouble, but to protect him from getting himself into it. 

"That includes you, by the way," Mycroft says. "Sherlock's mentally fragile, though he'll deny it, damn pride he has. I trust you John. You're a good person, I know. But I won't allow Sherlock to be hurt. Is that clear?" 

"Crystal," John replies, and he's a little offended. He'd never dream of doing anything to hurt Sherlock. If Mycroft knew anything about them, he'd know that. John bites his lip. "I think I should go. Tell Sherlock I said I'll see him tomorrow, won't you?"

"Of course," Mycroft smiles. "Goodbye John."

"Bye," John mumbles.

He feels as if Mycroft's eyes are on him until he reaches the end of the street.  


	11. Eleven

Sherlock hears the front door slam, and can't help the hurt he feels that John didn't even come up to say goodbye. 

Seconds later, there's the  _tap-tap_ of sensible shoes on the wooden stairs, then across the landing. Mycroft knocks once on the door then pushes it open. 

"Get out of my room," Sherlock throws a pillow, which lands about a foot in front of his brother. 

"I'm not in your room," Mycroft points out, waving his arms to show he's on the other side of the threshold. There's a pause. "Are you okay?" 

"No. Go away," Sherlock mumbles, rolling over so he's face down on the bed. 

"Sherlock, come on. Stop being childish," Mycroft tuts, so Sherlock sends a middle finger in the general direction of the doorway. "Well, I can see you plan on being stubborn as ever. If you do want to talk about this, I'll be in the longue." 

Sherlock waits until he's sure Mycroft has gone all the way downstairs before he retrieves his pillow and shuts the bedroom door. He sighs as he sits back on the edge of his bed. 

Once upon a time, when they were kids, Mycroft and Sherlock had been friends. The elder was expressly forbade to play with his little brother, but he obviously decided this was grossly unfair. It's the only time Sherlock's ever known Mycroft go against their fathers wishes. He'd sneak into Sherlock's room after their Mum and Dad had gone to bed with an armful of toys or an idea for a fantastic new pretend game they could play. They had to be careful not to wake their parents, so they spoke in whispers and crept around the room on tiptoe, but to Sherlock, it was magical. Mycroft would generally stay until long after midnight, when Sherlock would start to get tired and rub his eyes. Then Mycroft would tuck him in and tell him a story. Sometimes he read them out of books, but he mostly made them up himself. They all had one recurring character; Captain Sherlock, the bravest, scariest, most respected pirate in the world. He dug up many a treasure chest and had lots of exciting adventures. Sherlock always fell asleep before the story was finished, and when he woke up in the morning, there was no sign that Mycroft had been in the room at all. 

It stopped when Sherlock was seven, Mycroft fourteen. The elder started to spend more time with their father, distance himself from his brother. With in a year he was treating Sherlock the way their dad did; ignoring his existence most of the time, talking down to him when conversation was absolutely necessary. Still, Sherlock sat awake at night, staying up as long as he could in hopes that Mycroft would be along and they could play cars or dinosaurs or pirates or soldiers. He never came. Sherlock tried to soothe himself to sleep, tried to make up his own Captain Sherlock stories, but they were never as good as Mycroft's. And they always ended with Captain Sherlock's crew mutyinying, his first mate Mike turning his back on the Captain and stranding him on a desert island with no food or fresh water. 

One night, a week before Sherlock's eighth birthday, the brothers bumped into each other on the landing on clashing bathroom trips. There, at night, away from their fathers eyes, Sherlock was braver.

"Why don't you come and play with me any more?" he'd asked, and Mycroft shushed him furiously.. 

"Sh! They'll hear you," he'd reprimanded, but Sherlock just pouted defiantly. 

"Why, though?" Sherlock dropped his voice in volume. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Mycroft had shrugged awkwardly. "I'm too old for silly games like that now. I've grown up." 

"You could still tell me stories," Sherlock had sniffed. "I can't make them up as well as you can." 

"Dad would go crazy if he found out," was Mycroft's only response, before he went off back to his bedroom and left Sherlock standing alone. The games and the stories had officially stopped, but Sherlock woke up on his birthday to find a box in his room, wrapped in shiny silver paper, containing all of his favourite toys from their old games, as well as a book of Captain Sherlock stories, all written out in Mycroft's neat printing. 

In the ten years that have passed since their games stopped, Mycroft and Sherlock have grown so far apart nobody would ever think they were brothers. Sherlock's grown to resent Mycroft, and he'll begrudgingly admit its mostly based on jealousy. He's tried his whole life to get his father's approval, to get some kind of affection, a smile or an 'I'm proud of you' or an 'I love you'. He's never got any of the those, despite his efforts, despite his work. And yet Mycroft gets them in ambundance, without having to put any effort into it at all. Sherlock's sure his father goes out of his way to say it to Mycroft when he's in the room, make Sherlock even more jealous than he was before. And it works. 

Sherlock wills himself not to cry as he takes his phone out of his pocket and finds John's number. 

**_I'm sorry. SH_ **

_Don't be. It's fine :)_

_**I don't know why he turned up. I wasn't expecting him. If I had been I never would've suggested mine. SH** _

_Calm down, Sherlock. It's fine, really. I don't mind. Snogging was nice ;).  
_

_Why did you suggest yours by the way? Just out of curiosty.  
_

_**I had stuff planned for us. SH** _

_Ooh, interesting. What kind of "stuff"?  ;)_

_**It doesn't matter now. It's all gone down the pan. Maybe next time. SH**   
_

_Oh, come on. Tell me, I need to know now. I'm curious.  
_

_**Well. I taped Die Another Day because I know that one's your favourite. I thought we could watch it together, you could explain it to me again and I could try to enjoy it. I got some cookie dough ice cream in too, we could share that. And then we could go upstairs, have a shower together. I noticed the other week that you've got a new shower gel - a Lynx one, I realised. You smelled strongly of it so you're using it twice a day, at least, so I bought some of that. It wouldn't have to be sexy or anything. I just thought it'd be nice to stand under the spray together. Then we could've gone to bed, just snuggled up, talked and stuff and just sort let whatever was going to happen... happen. SH**   
_

_**Is that to sentimental? SH** _

_**It is isn't it? SH** _

_**Shit. I've put you off haven't I? SH** _

_**I'm sorry John. Ignore that. SH** _

_No. That was beautiful. I'd like to do that sometime._

_**Good. So would I :). SH**   
_

_Did you get read the riot act when I left?_

_**No. I think he was going to but I told him to piss off. SH** _

_Are you alright?_

_**A lot better thanks to you :). SH** _

_Good. It means I'm being a good best friend._

_**You're the best :). SH** _

_**I love you. SH.** _

Just in time, Sherlock catches himself and erases the last message with shaking fingers. 

 


	12. Twelve

John has rugby practise after school on Friday. 

He's the last to leave the changing rooms, scraping the mud out of his boots because he has this new bag and his mum will go bananas if he gets it all muddy. He hears the door open and close behind him, and someone steps into the room behind him. He freezes, until he hears that familiar voice behind him. 

"What took your friends so damn long? They're so  _slow,"_ Sherlock complains. 

"They natter on while they change," John shrugs. "It's like being stuck in a room full of old women, sometimes." 

"But they're all so  _tedious._ What do they even have to talk about?" Sherlock sits on the bench across from John. John shrugs. 

"Rugby. Teachers. Girls," he says. Sherlock wrinkles his nose. 

"Boring," he says. 

"Mm," John agrees. "I have much better conversations with you." 

"I know," Sherlock replies, with a shrug. John laughs there. 

"So modest," he comments. 

"You don't have to be modest when you're... what was the word you used? 'Fantastic', was it?" Sherlock says with a smirk. John shakes his head with a smile. 

"I am so regretting complimenting your ego," he says, shoving his rugby boots into his bag and sticking his feet into his ordinary trainers. He hops to his feet and holds his hand out to Sherlock. "Come on then, Mr Fantastic. Mum and Dad are away 'til Sunday and Harry's on a school trip to Paris. I've got the house to myself all weekend - you can stay over if you want." 

"Great," Sherlock smiles and slips his hand into John's. He doesn't show it but he's secretly thrilled that John's so casual about holding his hand in public. They keep their fingers linked the whole way home and Sherlock's glad because, despite the sub-zero temprature, John's hands are warm and his own fingers feel like icicles. He doesn't talk as much as usual on the homeward journey, just smokes and stares straight ahead, letting John talk rather than actually listening to him. He's lost in a train of thought. When Mycroft had left his room last night, he'd thrown something of a tantrum and pulled posters down and thrown pillows around and played The Sex Pistols on top volume to drown out the bangs and yells. Eventually he'd crashed out and fallen asleep on the bed, minus duvet and pillows. He didn't hear anyone come in, but when he woke up he had a pillow under his head and a blanket covering him. The only sign that anyone had been there at all was the old book of handwritten Captain Sherlock stories, open on his bedside table. 

"Oi," John's snapping fingers bring Sherlock back to reality. "Earth to Holmes? Are you with us?" 

"Um... no. Sorry," Sherlock says, giving John's hand an apologetic squeeze. "I was miles away. What were you saying?" 

"Doesn't matter. You alright?" John looks concerned, so Sherlock forces himself to smile. 

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" he says, and John shrugs. 

"You've had that fag lit for nearly five minutes now and you're just letting it burn out," John points out.  "You never light cigs without smoking them. Something's bothering you. What is it?" 

 "Just... thinking," Sherlock says, trying to shake off the subject. John is, as usual, sympathetic enough to know not to push too far. Instead he changes the subject. 

"Hey, how's your hand? Feeling any better yet?" John asks, noticing how Sherlock's been using his right hand a lot more. 

"What? Oh, that. Yeah, it's much better," Sherlock flexes his fingers, then winces. "Not totally healed, apparently. But better." 

"Good. That's good," John says, with a grin. 

"I had a good doctor," Sherlock replies, beding to press a small kiss against John's temple. "Thanks for bandaging it for me, love. It'd never have gotten better if it wasn't for you." 

 "No problem," John replies, with a delicate blush teasing his cheeks. They're at the front door now. He unlocks it and they bustle in over the threshold. John's waiting to be hit by the warm air of the central heating, but it doesn't happen. Grumbling, he goes to check the thermostat. He turns to Sherlock with a sigh. "Boiler's on the blink again. It won't be very warm. Sorry." 

"It's fine," Sherlock smiles. "There are other ways to keep warm besides than the boiler, you know." 

"Of course," John beams back. "Come on, we'll watch a film in my room. It'll be loads warmer underneath the duvet." 

They get twenty minutes into Lost Boys before they lose interest in it and get interested in each other instead. They're a tangle of lips and limbs and sheets for a long while and somewhere in that time they both end up in their boxers. Sherlock starts to get nervous then, especially as John's hands trail further down his chest and stomach. When they reach his crotch, Sherlock gasps and pulls away. John's hands fly away from Sherlock's body as if his skin is white hot. 

"Sorry," the taller boy mumbles. "I just... I...I'm not..." 

"Not ready?" John provides. "That's alright. It's fine. Your pace, remember?" 

"I know. But I... I..." Sherlock swallows, then shrugs. "I feel like I'm disappointing you. I mean... I just... you've done all this before, and I know other people  - all those girls - they're more... they're... not as nervous as I am." 

"Sherlock," John sighs. "Don't be daft. Look, it's your first time. You're bound to be nervous. If it's any consolotion, it's my first time with a bloke. I'm nervous too. I'm not disappointed. I'm totally happy to go at whatever speed feels right for you, alright? Just let it all come naturally." 

"Thank you," Sherlock pulls the little blond close, kissing the top of his head. "Thank you so much." 

"It's no problem," John settles against the skinny boy's shoulder. His hand rests on Sherlock's chest, fingers strumming against his sternum gently. They cuddle in the quiet for a while, the only interruption the soft buzz of  _"They're only noodles, Michael."_ in the background. Then John sighs. 

"Hey. How about we go and have that shower you were talking about last night?" he whisperes. 

"That'd be nice," Sherlock agrees, with a wide grin. 

Hand-in-hand they head off to the bathroom together. 


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about long period of no updates.  
> Life happened.

John has to admit, it's nice for once to shower with someone without having them grab at him and trying to start something every five seconds. He gets a little worried when Sherlock tells him to turn around and close his eyes, but he's pleasantly surprised when he feels long, gentle fingers massaging shampoo into his hair. 

"You've got nice hair," Sherlock compliments. "Very soft." 

"Thanks," John grins, leaning back into Sherlock's hands. When the suds are rinsed completely from the blonde locks, Sherlock's hands come down over John's shoulders and his arms wrap around the smaller boy's torso. In return, John loops his own arms backwards around Sherlock's neck.

"This is nice," John comments quietly. 

"It is," Sherlock agrees, resting his chin on top of John's head. He lets his hands stroke over John's chest. "You really are lovely, you know." 

"Cheers. You're not so bad yourself," John chuckles, blushing slightly. Sherlock starts to hum quietly, and John grins. He doesn't recognise the tune, but that doesn't surprise him. Sherlock's a talented violin player and, on the sly, composer. He's played a couple of his own for John and that honestly makes him feel more special than he's ever felt before. John's closes his eyes again and starts to sway in time with the music, making Sherlock do the same. His voice is lower and huskier than usual when he talks. "Writing something new?" 

"Just an idea I'm playing with," the taller boy replies. "Do you like it?" 

"Yeah," John grins. "It's nice." 

"Thanks," John can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. They're quiet for a little while, embracing in comfortable silence under the shower spray. Then on an impulse, John speaks up. 

"Come to Sally's party with me tomorrow," he says, and Sherlock's grip on him becomes slack. "Come on. It's not like she'll  _mind._ There's a ton of people going, you won't have to see her." 

"I'm going shopping with Molly tomorrow, remember?" Sherlock says. John sighs and turns to face the taller boy. 

"The party doesn't start until seven. Shops shut at half five at latest," John points out. "You have no excuse except you're an anti-social bastard. Come on. Please? For me?" 

"If this is your way of flirting with me, it's piss poor," Sherlock says. "And it won't work." 

"Not even if I do this?" John says, leaning up and pressing his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock chuckles and winds his arms properly around the smaller boy, deepening the kiss. Before John can properly get into it, Sherlock pulls away. 

"Not even if you do that," he says. John scowls at him. 

"You're a bastard," he says. 

"Thanks, dear, I try," Sherlock smiles and winks at him and John can't help smiling back. He punches the taller boy very gently on the shoulder. 

"Please come," he says. Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. 

"For God's sake, John," he says. "Why do you even  _want_ me there? Surely there'll be tons of your other friends there." 

"Yeah, I know. But they're not you, are they?" John says. "Come on. I want you there. Please." 

"You're not going to shut up until I say yes, are you?" Sherlock says. 

"No I am not," John replies. 

"I'm just as stubborn as you are, you know," Sherlock quirks one eyebrow upwards. 

"I'm more persuasive," John smirks. 

"Oh? How so?" Sherlock asks, and if John didn't know him better he'd say he was flirting. 

 "Please?" John kisses the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Then along his jaw. Then down his neck. Each kiss is accompanied with a 'please'. When he reaches the spot where Sherlock's neck and shoulder join, the taller leans his head back against the tiles of the shower wall, closing his eyes and sighing blissfully. 

"Oh, John," he whispers. 

"Is that a yes?" John says against his skin and fuck, if the vibration of the sound doesn't feel amazing. Sherlock breathes out heavily. 

"It's a maybe," he says, because he's Sherlock, and he'll never fully change his mind. But for John, he's willing to meet halfway. It's good enough for the little blond and he bounces up to the balls of his feet so he can kiss the tip of Sherlock's nose. 

"Thanks," he said. "Now come on. Let's get out of here before we use up all the hot water. Chinese on me?" 

 "Sounds like a plan," Sherlock grins, following John out of the shower and along to his bedroom. They both dry off and redress - or, rather, they blast each other in the face with the hairdryer a few times and laugh and kiss and wrestle in their underwear for ten minutes. 

When they eventually get downstairs, John calls up their Chinese place and they cuddle on the couch, Sherlock's head resting in John's lap. He bridges his fingers just under his nose and flutters his eyes shut, muttering for John to "let him think". The smaller boy is more than happy to do so, just watching something silly on the television, playing absent-mindedly with a stray curl near Sherlock's ear. Its some stupid reality show in the telly, the kind of thing that Sherlock moans endlessly about. John usually agrees, but now he finds himself enthralled. So much so that he doesn't notice that Sherlock's opened his eyes and is watching him. He's startled when the dark haired boy takes his hand, stroking his fingers gently. 

"Why?" Sherlock asks. 

"I dunno, nothing else on I suppose. I can change it if you want, or we can put a film on?" John says, but Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. 

"I don't care about that. Why do you want me to come tomorrow so badly?" he asks.  _  
_

"Dunno," John says.

"You must know, otherwise you wouldn't be so persistent. Why?" Sherlock wants to know. 

"To be honest, all those lot are a bit boring," John sighs. "I like them, the rugby lads and Sally and that lot. But they're just so  _samey,_ you know? You could predict the conversations, they always talk about the same bloody things. You're loads more interesting. I mean - we always have a laugh, you and me, don't we? And you're my best mate. Is that a good enough reason?" 

"More than good enough," Sherlock beams. 

 


End file.
